Never let it be said that Harvest Rain,
Enjoying now two score of fertile years,
Does not a fertile training ground provide
For youth, who, from the reaches of the State,
And further yet, descend in pilgrimage
To test their craft with Mad exuberance.
They might indeed seem mad to think that in
A mere four days, dead Will’s Ado on nought
Might take a funky form, be nipped and tucked
And stitched with mime-ed evergreens of love,
Of hope and sharp intrigues.
But Madly mad
They were indeed, and did, with such a force
Of zestful life, that Will himself might well
Have donned a red or yellow garb to join
The six and ninety dancing throng with joy.
And joyful more he might have been to hear
His playful double meanings spoken clear
By this intrepid, buoyant youthful band.
Let them be praised as one, for one they were
In energy, vitality and sheer
And praise the one
Who, in a blink of theatre time, did more
Achieve than many who, resourced with time
Abundant, labour long but little yield.
May your youthful harvest, Harvest Rain,
This rewarding always be.
Directed by Tim O’Connor
Season now ended